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Dogtown, 2 am.

The cold breeze of a humble town is softly spreading through the hallways, through the gloom which society, blinded and controlled by the system, can't even acknowledge. They remain unaware of the fog, that haze made of money, religion and family which allows them to live on the edge of some naive happiness, fed by feelings of false security.
But there are those who have fallen. Those who were pulled in by the filthy grasp of the underworld. Many try to escape the darkness that reaches the alleys and the urban late nights, and wonders in the pubs filled with booze, cigarrettes and sorrow, in the streets sold to the whores and the addicts, in the doors of the black market, which have been cracked wide open. Those ones, true prophets, riders of the storm in shiny armors, are so tainted by the urban dirt, hidden in the shadow of the outlaw, that when the dawn rises and turns into day, giving way to this deceitful light that buries the existing ghosts, they dare to peek, slowly, above the darkness. And there they stand, peeking and peeking, until the time comes when they gather the strength and decency to break the misleading dissertation that lies beyond the reach of their eyes. Thereafter, like a hit of dry gunpowder, comes that outraged liberation of the body, where words run through the bloodstream and fuel an existential orgasm.
But until then, the underworld still holds them beneath the fog: the false prophet, that great artist who sold his soul to the devil, brought to this world from the womb of poverty; the shadow man, murderer of a thousand women who would sell their virtue to make a living; a white-collar prostitute, the most well-known in all of Dogtown; and a beggar, enslaved by his own illusions.